


pick me up and dust me off

by camerasparring



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Divorcees Eddie and Bill deal with some things, Fanboy Eddie Kaspbrak, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Infidelity, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Protective Bill Denbrough, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28225050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/camerasparring/pseuds/camerasparring
Summary: Bill protects Eddie over and over and over.But sometimes Eddie is there for him, too. Whether he knows it or not.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Eddie Kaspbrak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 25
Collections: It Rare Pair Secret Santa 2020





	pick me up and dust me off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scorpiod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/gifts).



> Happy holidays, requester! I tried to combine a few of the prompts you gave me. I really wanted to write an OT7, but alas, I did not have the time. One day, perhaps. <3
> 
> This is unbeta'd, so all the mistakes are my own.

Before

“E-Eds?”

The light from the door peeks into the small bathroom. Eddie shoves his face into his arms, wiping the tears off on his sleeves.

“Occupied,” he sniffles, and the door ekes back to a close. 

Weird. His mother never...

“Sorry, I’m not trying to—” 

Eddie pokes his head back up. “Bill?” 

Sniff. Wipe. 

“Yeah, Eddie. It’s me.” Creak. Sniff. “I just wanted to check on you. I d-didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not,” Eddie says quick. His ears flush with embarrassment, rushing and painful and red; he totally forgot he had invited Bill over after school.

“Your mom said you were up here, and I heard you crying from down the hall—” 

“I wasn’t _crying_.” 

“Oh,” Bill falters, then kindly, “Right, I’m sorry.” 

Eddie can see through his blurry tears and the dark of the bathroom that he still hasn’t re-opened the door, so he takes a second to scrub over his face, trying to make himself appear presentable. Another sob shivers up through his spine. He’s sure Bill hears it as soon as it tears out of his throat. 

So that ruins that.

It was an unusually pleasant day at school—a good grade in Algebra where he didn’t expect it, and Bill and Stan joining he and Richie for an early lunch—but as soon as he got home, his mind was immediately elsewhere. His mother was on him about the big grass stain on the front of his jeans from where he took a dumb tumble off the bus—he was fucking _fine_ —and then she berated him for forgetting his inhaler—the _one_ time he forgets in years, and she always treats him like a _child_ instead of an overwhelmed teenager who had more on his mind than pretending to appease his mother—and when he tried to yell back all that came out was an aborted squeak, stuck hard and painful in his throat, like he was ten years old with no choice but to listen to her yapping and feeling that rising, all-encompassing shame, and it all crashed down on him as soon as he made his way back upstairs. He couldn’t even make it to his bedroom; he had ducked right into the small powder room at the top of the stairs and sniffled himself into a panic attack until Bill showed up. 

It’s just… not _fair_. He’s fifteen. His mother shouldn’t be able to make him feel this way anymore. Not after everything he’s been through. Not after everything he’s faced.

“She just makes me feel so fucking _stupid_ ,” Eddie means to growl, but it comes out more as a whimper. “Like I’m a baby. Like I don’t know what I’m doing… like… like I can’t take care of myself! And I can! Of course I fucking can.”

The door pops back open. Eddie’s heart jumps. He hears Bill clear his throat.

“You c-can,” Bill agrees, his shoe wedging into the room. Eddie would laugh at his hesitance if he weren’t so angry. His whole face is hot. Burning. The tears don’t even cool it down, running like lava down his cheeks. 

“I just don’t get it. She can’t ever leave me alone. Cut me some slack.” He itches at the stain on his pants. He promised his mother he would take them off and throw them down the chute as soon as she let him go. He wants to ball them up and hide them under his bed, like he used to do with his dirty underwear. She found the whole pile after months and didn’t let him out of the house for two weeks, but the stark look of anger and shock on her face had almost been worth it. 

Bill’s whole form suddenly appears, silhouetted by the light of the hallway. Eddie squints at the halo of him, his brown hair stuck up from his quick bicycle ride here. His eyes are soft and worried. He lets the door hang open so there’s some light, but crosses his arms over his chest and gives Eddie his space. 

Relief sweeps over Eddie like someone covered him in a blanket of it. Like when a teacher makes eye contact but then calls on someone else. 

Bill digs his foot into the ground, kicking it forward then pulling it back, dragging over the ugly tile. Eddie watches him do it for minutes, the repetitive motion calming away his tears.

“It’s not…” Bill starts. Shakes his head. “It’s not the same, but…” 

He takes a step forward. Eddie presses himself firmer into the wall, embarrassment coiling deep in his belly like a snake. His friends have seen him cry enough for a lifetime, and honestly, he tends to prefer Richie’s way of coping with it: pretending like it’s not happening. It’s about the only thing he _will_ ignore. But Bill is always so understanding and soft and warm, and Eddie finds, right now, standing here with him in this bathroom, that he wants to hear what Bill has to say instead.

“I kinda wish my dad cared enough to smother me even for a day.” Bill’s shoulders hike up to his ears, and Eddie feels a defensive wall creep up, then collapse back down. “I’m not sayin’ that makes it b-b-better. It’s not… it’s not good, Eds. I know she hurts you.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sniffles, reaching for the roll of toilet paper to wipe the snot off his face. “Yeah, but I get it.” 

Bill’s smile is tentative and sweet. Eddie’s whole face goes tingly. 

“You still need Physics help?” Bill asks, and Eddie blinks back to the reality of life. School. Homework. Fucking _physics_. Ugh. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, exhaling through the shaky remnants of his tears. 

“Okay. Well.” Bill takes another step forward until they’re so close Eddie can feel the heat of his body. Then he wraps him up in a hug. 

Eddie freezes, their bodies pressed together so completely that he’s sure Bill can hear how loudly his heart is pounding in his chest. But Bill just tucks his face in Eddie’s neck. Holds tight. Squeezes him until Eddie squirms, overwhelmed and comforted and embarrassed and and and… wonderful, all rattling in the pit of his stomach.

“Sorry, I—” Bill starts, and Eddie sees his eyes heavy lidded and his mouth twitching open and doesn’t stop to think before he surges forward to connect their lips in a kiss. It’s dry and desperate and awkward and Eddie wants to die as soon as he does it, but then Bill moves his hand to cup around Eddie’s cheek and accepts it like a good friend. Like he… like maybe he doesn’t mind it so much. 

Bill pets carefully, softly, slowly through the patch of hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck. Eddie shivers under the touch and tries to keep his lips still. Bill seems to know what he’s doing; Eddie knows he’s kissed plenty of people before. Beverly. Dana Little. Gretta Keene after Homecoming last year, though he’s not supposed to know about that one—again, Richie can never shut the fuck up. 

No one’s ever kissed Eddie. No one’s ever _wanted_ to kiss Eddie before. And maybe Bill doesn’t want it, but he’s not pushing Eddie away, like he’s ruined everything. 

Eddie has no idea what to do with his hands, or his mouth, so it hangs limply open while Bill sucks on his bottom lip, soothing it with a sweep of his tongue before tilting his head the other way, and just as Eddie’s hands come up to cling to Bill’s hips, Bill pulls away.

“Eddie,” he gentles between them.

“Physics,” Eddie blurts back. 

Bill laughs, his spit and breath warm against Eddie’s lips, his fingers still curled around Eddie’s jaw, and Eddie feels like melting in his hold, like he’s been put back together by one stupid kiss. 

“Right,” says Bill, hand combing through his own hair necessarily. It’s always perfect, even after it’s been wind-blown and tugged on. “Let’s do some Physics.”

When he turns around to leave, it takes Eddie a couple seconds to get his brain-to-body connection going again. 

So it was… it was a good kiss. 

In Between

Eddie has never been to a book signing in his life, but he’s pretty sure they don’t usually attract hecklers. 

Myra had derided him again and again for his decision to attend this one, but mostly because she’s never been a fan of William Denbrough, and she’s _especially_ never been a fan of horror. Eddie doesn’t exactly have a passion for it either, but something about Denbrough’s books… spark something familiar in him. Maybe it’s growing up an only child with a restless and mildly overprotective mother, but the concept of found families has never touched him so deeply as when he read William Denbrough’s first book in college. He had spent all night, tucked up into his stupidly lofted bed, cradling the book against his chest, until he pressed the crinkly pages back together when he was finished and cried himself to sleep. 

A couple elementary internet searches and a Mozilla deep-dive later and Edward Kaspbrak was one of William Denbrough’s first book club subscribers. Every year since, a new novel in a crumpled brown bag has been delivered to his college dorm, then his first apartment, and then his marital home, where Myra often finds them on the front stoop and hands them to him with an eye roll and a scoff. 

But Eddie doesn’t care. Myra has her Friday Hallmark movie clubs, she hardly has the right to judge. That was the staunch attitude that stirred in Eddie’s gut when he found the advertisement for a book reading and signing of _Dark Eye of the Storm_ , featuring William “Bill” Denbrough, at the Barnes & Noble a mile from his office. It felt like a mix of dumb luck and fate. 

Myra wasn’t keeping him from this. And it’s not like she’s _always_ got to know what he’s doing with his time. She doesn’t know that he sometimes drinks coffee with full fat milk. She doesn’t know about his late nights at the office he spends jerking off to unremarkable gay porn. She doesn’t know about intern from a few years ago who shoved him into a utility closet at the office Christmas party and kissed him until Eddie gave him a sloppy blowjob. It’s not like Eddie is doing anything _crazy_. And it would only hurt her feelings. 

So now Eddie sits in the front row, watching “Bill” Denbrough’s mouth wobble while a man standing in the back, amongst the stacks of re-branded fairy tale picture books, tells him his characters are hollow and, in so many words, “fuckin’ idiots.” 

“Bill” keeps it together until the end of the event—and security surrounds the guy menacingly, which seems to appease him—and once Eddie approaches the table, he’s even got a warm, happy pink flush across his cheeks and a dopey smile on his face. 

“What’s the name?”

Eddie freezes. Name. His name. He knows his name, it’s his fucking _name_. It’s…

“Um.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

“Hard question?” “Bill” asks through a pleased grin. At least someone is enjoying this. Eddie shakes out his fists and gets his shit together.

“No, it’s... My name is Eddie.” 

“Eddie,” “Bill” repeats. “Simple and sweet, just like mine.” 

“Y-yeah, I—” 

“Nice to meet you, Eddie. I’m Bill.” He draws a quick squiggle on the first page of Eddie’s book and slides it back over the table. 

Just as Eddie thinks, _oh fuck, he’s cuter in person_ , he feels a light tap on his shoulder. 

It’s the heckler. Close enough for Eddie to smell the prickly stink of booze on the guy’s breath. 

It all happens faster than Eddie can process. All he sees is the guy move to walk around him, then swing a fist out at where Bill is sitting behind the table. In hindsight, the guy is hammered, a good five feet from where Bill’s face is positioned, and so shaky on his feet that the force of one swing probably would have toppled him over. 

But in… current, present sight— Well. 

Eddie whirls around, shoves the guy back, and then punches him clear across the face. 

He hears a loud “oh, _shit_ ,” from who he assumes is “Bill” Denbrough, but the red spotting his vision and the rushing in his ears drown out everything else. The guy rears back from the blow and blood starts pouring from his nose while his cheeks go puffy and red and then he’s swinging his fist again and turns out Eddie isn’t so lucky the second time. 

His vision goes out—is he _dying_ , oh fuck is that the white light oh Jesus no he’s not prepared to die in the horror section of a Manhattan Barnes & Noble—but then he feels a hand wrap firmly around his arm and pull him out of the fray. There are limbs still clawing at him and a bunch of screaming, so Eddie goes with it, because he’s never been in a fight before but he knows his next move would have been dropping to the ground and assuming the fetal position. By the time his mind has stopped swimming and his vision is back in full, he’s being ushered into the men’s room by none other than “Bill” Denbrough himself. 

“Oh,” he chokes out stupidly, embarrassingly, while “Bill”... _Bill_ unspools some paper towel from the dispenser and runs it under the tap until it’s soaked. Eddie tries to will his soul back into his body, but when he turns to see himself in the mirror, bloody and bruising under his nose and over his cheekbone, he wants to pass out instead. 

“Yeah, he got you,” Bill says, impressed. 

Eddie pokes at his nose as it continues to leak blood.

“I thought he was coming for you.” 

Bill squeezes the towel into the sink. His mouth twitches into a smile, watching Eddie in the mirror. 

“C’mere.” Bill crooks his hand, still dripping with water, and Eddie comes easy. Bill leads him again by the arm, closer to the sink. “Tilt your head back.” 

“That’s… that’s a myth,” Eddie blurts before he can help it. Bill’s face falls, then spreads into a disbelieving smile. Eddie tongues around his back molars. “You’re supposed to lean forward if your nose is bleeding, not back. It’s not really good for the, um...”

“Well you sound like you know what you’re talking about.” Bill huffs a laugh. He thumbs at Eddie’s chin and urges his head forward instead. Eddie stares at their shoes on the dirty bathroom floor. 

Bill wears nice shoes. Of course he does, he’s a fucking famous writer. 

“That was a real hero move back there,” Bill says, dangling the wet paper towel into Eddie’s line of vision. It’s cold in Eddie’s hot, punch-drunk hand; he presses it to his nose, and it comes back pink with his blood. He stomach swirls with nausea. 

“Uhhh.”

“Y’okay there?” Bill asks, pressing a finger back to Eddie’s chin. Eddie isn’t thinking, is trying not to pass out, so he wraps his free hand around Bill’s wrist to steady himself. “Whoa—” 

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Whatever you need,” Bill says, and Eddie’s woozy, he’s not _thinking_ , nothing beyond _wow, those are nice shoes_ and _fuck, he smells so much_ better _up close_ and then Bill’s arm curls around his whole body and lands on his hip. 

“What,” Eddie murmurs at the same time Bill says, “Listen,” and they both stop, staring at each other, until Bill squeezes hard around Eddie’s hip bone and Eddie wants to fucking crawl into his arms and start sobbing with how badly he wants.

So he says, “Can I suck your dick?” and Bill— 

Licks his lips.

And nods. 

“Oh fuck,” Eddie gasps. He rushes to unbutton Bill’s pants, but Bill is faster than him, going for Eddie’s first. Eddie’s a little shell-shocked. It was his idea, sure, but can you really call something that came from the inner recesses of your horny brain an _idea_? It was more like fucking luck of the draw, balls-to-the-wall fantasy suggestion. And now Bill is staring like he woke up early on Christmas morning and Eddie is a wrapped package under the tree.

Eddie’s hard as a rock. But as soon as his pants are being pushed open, Bill stops.

“I changed my mind,” he says. Eddie wants to ask what that means, but his brain isn’t fully connected to his mouth, and then Bill kind of defeats the purpose of talking by taking Eddie’s cock in his hand. 

“Oh.”

“You look…” Bill trails off, focusing on the red, swollen head of Eddie’s dick and how it glides through the circle of his fist. And Eddie— 

Eddie’s going to come. He can’t handle this. Bill Fucking Denbrough is jerking him off in a bathroom at a book signing. Bill Fucking Denbrough is looking at him like he’s a starving man and Eddie is a buffet of free food. Bill Fucking Denbrough is flipping him around, shoving him into the sink, and bending him over at the waist. 

Eddie just kinda goes with it. Anything Bill Fucking Denbrough wants.

“I don’t usually do this,” Bill feels the need to tell him, and then there’s a slick, hot dick being pressed against the small of Eddie’s back. 

“Okay,” Eddie says, quietly, thinking absurdly of the intern, and how much better this already is.

“You’re just…” Bill grunts, thrusting his hips so his cock trails between Eddie’s ass cheeks. “Is this okay?” 

“ _Yes_ ,” Eddie says, emphatically. “Not to be… it’s just…” Eddie sighs. Bites his lip when Bill reaches back around to fist his cock. “It’s good. It’s all really good.” 

“Good.” 

Bill pins him there for awhile, working his dick, pumping his hips back and forth so he can use the friction of Eddie’s ass to get himself off. Eddie is sweating, thrashing, whimpering as covertly as he can. When he looks down and sees the blood from his nose has dripped onto his dick, smeared all across it by Bill’s ministrations, he throws his ass back harder and shoots come all over the sink basin. 

It’s like someone shot him with a stun gun. He’s _never_ come that fast.

“Oh fuck. Jesus, did you just come?” Bill pants, and Eddie wants to say _no_ , but the fact that he’s groaning his heart out and spurting all over Bill’s hand will probably give him away, so he braces his hands on the sink and just keeps taking it. 

Bill’s thrusts slow down, and Eddie can’t have that, so he moans, wet and loud, and spreads his legs on the floor.

“Keep going, keep—” 

“Jesus,” Bill hisses, overwhelmed. Eddie squeezes his ass cheeks together best he can, and just as he feels Bill’s dick rock over his hole, Bill breathes heavy and hot against the skin of his neck, and then it’s nothing but wet, wet, wet all over. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck, Eddie—”

“Oh my god.” Eddie’s in disbelief. He can’t feel his face, or his feet, or his ass. “Oh my _god_.” 

Can he usually feel his ass?

Bill’s hips keep slamming into Eddie, which slams him into the sink, but it just stirs his softening cock painfully. He thinks maybe he would be ready for another round, but then Bill stutters one more desperate thrust and putters out. 

“Wow,” pants Bill into the crook of Eddie’s spine. Eddie’s shirt has been rucked up to the middle of his chest, and Bill’s hands take advantage. Over his stomach, up across his nipples, then up through the stretched neck of his collar and pushing through his lips. 

Eddie accepts, tonguing over them in thanks, still bent so far over the sink he can see the lack of shine on the drain.

Bill laughs, low and sultry. But when he says, “I think I should probably get back out there,” Eddie feels a cold bucket of shame drop over his head. 

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says, moving to pull up his pants, then feeling a strong hand press to his back. 

“Don’t be sorry. But also don’t move. You’re covered.” 

Eddie stares down at himself. He has blood on his _dick_. When he shifts sideways, at Bill’s urging, he gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His _face_ is covered in blood. That’s when it all hits him:

He just fucked Bill Denbrough. In a bathroom. After he _punched_ someone. 

He’s covered in come and blood and sweat. 

What the _fuck_. 

Even the soothing press of warm paper towels over his back can’t stop the rattle of Eddie’s lungs in his chest. He turns back toward the sink, trying to find some solace in what is familiar, but it doesn’t work. It’s still happening. Now _this_ is happening. As if today hasn’t been enough already, he’s going to panic in this bathroom. In front of Bill Fucking Denbrough. 

Unfortunately, Eddie is about as subtle as a house on fire. 

“You okay, man?” Bill asks, hooking a three-pointer paper towel into the trash can. Somehow even _that_ is charming, and Eddie distinctly remembers going on a ten minute rant about such douchebag moves to Myra before, but that was about guys in his office, not Bill Fucking Denbrough. 

“Yeah,” Eddie lies. “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine.” His voice is squeaky and high. Bill squints in his direction and Eddie almost bursts into tears. He just needs to get _out_ of here. 

“Let me help you clean your face, too.” Bill sucks air through his teeth. “God, you’re still kinda…” 

Eddie shoves two hands over his mouth, trying to cover some of the smeared blood. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got it. It’s gross, I know—” 

“I was gonna say you’re still cute,” Bill says, probably lies, but Eddie buys it, hook, line and sinker. Of course he does, when Bill’s got a smile like that. Wide and cocky. Then Bill wraps his hand back around Eddie’s arm and reels them a little closer together.

“You were not going to say that,” Eddie says. Bill snorts, his head falling between them. 

Even his _hair_ smells good. Like coconut cream pie and bike rides in the summer. Eddie’s whole brain flickers alight, reaching for something he can’t quite get, but Bill is leaning still, so he scraps it in favor of closing the gap between them in a kiss. 

Bill hums into it, short and sweet. Eddie’s face burns. He can taste the coppery slickness of his blood. Bill licks over his bottom lip, and Eddie’s stomach clenches with familiarity, so overwhelming that he pulls away with a groan. 

But when he looks in Bill’s eyes, he sees nothing there. No one he knows but the man whose books have kept him occupied— and horny, as he’s realizing a bit belatedly right now—for decades. Nothing familiar at all. 

Eddie shifts back, putting some distance between them. Bill nods in tacit understanding. 

“Hey, uh,” Bill says, washing his hands to return to signing books. “Thanks for saving me back there.” 

Eddie scoffs. The paper towel he’s wiping over his face helps cover the blush. 

“No problem.” 

After

“Eddie?” 

Eddie tries to blink and somehow… fails. 

He hears Bill’s voice. 

“Eddie? Eds, can you hear me?” 

“Bill?” he croaks, his throat scratchy and painful. He tries to swallow and— 

“I’m here, Eds. Let me call a nurse or something—” 

“No,” Eddie snaps, reaching his hand out and connecting with Bill’s arm. He forces his eyes open again, blurry and tired and heavy, but he sees Bill’s face, finally. 

He sees Bill’s smile. 

“Hey, Eds,” Bill says. 

Eddie whimpers. 

And then everything goes back to black. 

The aftermath of Derry goes far beyond Eddie’s actual scars, which, for the record, aren’t pretty. But the rest of it isn’t, either. Going home and trying to fall back into his routine—not just after a life-threatening injury down the center of his sternum, but also after regaining most of his memories in one big whammy, followed by several continuing whammies—isn’t something anyone is equipped for. Least of all Eddie.

And even least-er of all: Bill. 

A few months into “life in the post-Clown realm,” as Richie so fondly puts it, Bill pretty much falls off the face of the Earth. And since all of the Losers are spread out about the country, that means he stops responding to group chat messages, ignores calls, and doesn’t attend any of the group Zoom sessions Stanley and Patty so kindly set up. Eddie’s content to blame most of it on the time-consuming stress of Bill’s divorce. Both he and Bill went through the same thing, around the same time, and Eddie knows it’s rough. He doesn't particularly want to be around happy couples either, and seeing not only Stan with his perfect, beautiful wife, but Beverly and Ben, new and complete and whole in their love, while also navigating her divorce is… 

It’s not fun. 

In fact, it kind of makes Eddie feel like he’s fucked up his whole entire life. He wouldn’t be surprised if Bill is feeling the same way. Plus he kind-of-sort-of misses Bill.

Kind of. 

So on one boring Thursday, after staring at the balance of his post-divorce checking account and his Roth IRA for three hours at his desk, he walks into his boss’ office, puts in his no-weeks notice—who the fuck cares, he doesn’t owe these people anything—and calls Bill until he picks up. 

“ _Five_ calls? Really?” Bill grumbles. He’s clearly just woken up, but Eddie could not care less. 

“I’m coming to LA.” 

Bill groans. “I’m _fine_.”

“This isn’t about you.” Eddie pauses, glaring at the ten million blandly colored ties hanging in his closet. “I need a change. And you have a million fucking guest bedrooms, you can’t tell me that _one_ isn’t open for me to stay in.” 

Bill makes another exasperatedly bothered noise. “Eddie—”

“What? Are you telling me you don’t need a change?” Eddie has suddenly never felt more sure of anything in his life. And he’s not going to let Bill Fucking _Denbrough_ ruin it for him. 

“I guess I—” 

“There you go.” Eddie smiles. To himself. In his closet. “I’ll text you my flight details.” 

The transition is… rough. Luckily, everything after Derry has been a delightful mess of confusing and life-altering and scary as fuck, so Eddie feels equipped to roll with even more punches. 

It’s not that living together is difficult; actually, Eddie finds Bill to be the most agreeable roommate he’s ever had. Mostly because he gives Eddie free rein of his house. Eddie cleans. Eddie organizes. Eddie makes phone calls to set up a cleaning service, so he doesn’t have to _keep_ cleaning and organizing. Eddie cooks. Eddie burns things. Eddie watches a ton of Youtube videos and then cooks again. Eddie serves meals and desserts that are mostly edible. And Bill just… copes. 

That’s all Eddie really expects of him; he’s fine using Bill’s sensitive state as a distraction from his own mental journey. And after a few months, Bill starts coming around. He starts interacting again. He starts sparingly texting the group chat. And he even makes an appearance in their video calls, if only to pop his head in and say hi. 

Four months after Eddie moves to LA, into Bill’s big fuck-off mansion, Bill actually seems to be getting back to normal. Not that Eddie knows what Bill’s normal is. But he’s eating and writing and generally, like, waking up, so Eddie feels comfortable enough breaking out the alcohol to celebrate. 

Bill is not impressed.

“Bailey’s?”

“It’s all you had and I’ve already changed into my end-of-the-day sweats,” Eddie says, shooing Bill to the couch. He laughs, and follows orders, the greying streak of his hair falling into his face. Eddie grabs two coffee mugs and slams them down on the stupid glass coffee table. 

“Mugs.” Bill states it like a fact, so Eddie just grunts his assent. “Is this… it’s not your birthday, is it? Oh fuck, I knew I was down for Christmas but this…”

“It’s not my b— you seriously don’t remember my _birthday_?” 

Bill squints. “It’s in Mar—” 

“It’s in November.”

Eddie was still in New York at the time, but as the days got closer, he felt less and less like spending it alone, shut up in his sublet by himself. Bill was the only one available, which stung a bit, but Eddie didn’t fault everyone else for not having a random Thursday night in November free. Next year though, they were all on the hook. 

Bill was quiet but pleasant on the phone, and Eddie’s heart ached a little to see his face again, no matter how bad the lighting. They had separately ordered in sushi and watched 80’s movies all night. Eddie had a great time quoting what he still remembered from _Back to the Future_ and discussing narrative choices before falling asleep at nine. For forty-one, it felt fitting. 

Bill’s face is blank.

“Wow. Happy birthday to me.” Eddie pours the frothy liquid until both their mugs are half full. His first swig is disgusting, but beggars can’t be choosers. And Eddie’s basically been living rent free for the past four months, so he doesn’t feel the comparison is too far off. 

The next swig is a little better. And the one after that, even moreso. They keep going until most of the bottle is gone, and then he and Bill are barefoot and giggling on separate corners of the couch like three hours haven’t flown by. 

“I’m a lightweight,” slurs Bill, upending the bottle to get the last few drips out of the bottom. Eddie snorts. 

“Me too, I guess.” 

Bill flops back down against the couch. “It’s not like I’m out at bars, you know?” 

“Yes, I know, Bill,” Eddie says, not as carefully as he should. “I live here. I think I’d notice you actually leaving.” 

Bill’s face contorts, somewhere between angry and sad. He licks his lips. They’re shiny, and Eddie watches them for far too long. 

“Mike said I should go on a date,” says Bill. A painful zing hits Eddie right in the chest, but he schools his face to neutrality.

“Oh?” He didn’t know Bill was talking to Mike all that much. And they’re talking about _dating_? Eddie can talk about dating! Or… the lack thereof. They have that in common. Apparently. 

Eddie would _know_. Mike’s never been divorced. Not that this is Mike’s fault. 

“Mmm,” Bill hums. His forehead creases. He points his mug toward the blank space in front of him. “I don’t know where to pick up… I mean, how do people do that?” 

Eddie doesn’t really think about it, still lost in confusion over what the fuck Bill has been doing in his room while Eddie is cooking and cleaning and trying not to drop emotional bombs, so he says, “You could always fuck another super fan in the bathroom of your next book signing.” 

And… there it is. All out on the table. And it feels like… relief. 

Their memories have been so weird, so there, then gone, then somewhere in between, that Eddie came upon that particular doozy in the middle of a work day last year as soon as he got back to New York. He’s done his panicking. He’s done his wondering; he already knows Bill doesn’t remember. Bill doesn’t remember something that happened _after_ the clown. Something as inconsequential as Eddie’s birthday. 

Whatever. Eddie’s done worrying about it. 

Bill’s face is doing that dumb-blank thing again—okay, Eddie’s had a little too much to drink and done a little _too_ much thinking—so he clearly had no idea. And as the blank look fades into a deep, embarrassed—or horny? Too much Bailey’s—flush, Eddie assumes it’s all coming back to him now. 

Bill’s voice cracks. “Wait, wait…”

Yep. Definitely coming back. 

Bill leans up quickly, elbows planting on his knees, his drink spilling over the lip of his mug. 

“You _remembered_ this?” 

Eddie clenches his teeth. _Blood against his tongue. Panting at his back. A warm, tight fist around his_ — 

“Yes,” he says, then feels like he should probably mitigate the damage. “Look, it’s not a big deal.” 

Bill flops back against the couch, and spills his whole mug of Bailey’s down the front of his shirt. 

So there goes that. 

“Oh my _god_ ,” Bill hisses, and Eddie stands up like a shot to wet a towel for him. The deja vu is so strong it stops him right in his tracks, and by the time he’s turned back around, Bill has stripped off his soiled shirt. 

“That’s… one way to do it,” Eddie mumbles, and suddenly— 

It’s probably the booze. The milky sting of years-old Bailey’s and the rush of remembering, and being here with Bill, who is smiling and talking and laughing just like he used to when they were kids. Just like he did at that book signing; charming and flirting his way through Eddie panicking, and now he’s just _standing_ there shirtless, staring at Eddie like _that_ and—

“Eddie?” Bill says, waving a hand in front of Eddie’s eye-line, which he now realizes is directly at Bill’s nipples, and Bill’s tanned skin, and the vague shape of Bill’s dick in his sweatpants, and— 

It’s probably because it’s been awhile since he’s gotten laid. Like, since before Derry. And with a _man_? Well the last time was probably… 

“Eddie,” Bill repeats, taking a step forward, and it’s like all of his different pasts have merged into this exact moment, with Bill’s olive eyes and his kind smile and gorgeous hair and that _look_ and— 

Eddie practically jumps into Bill’s arms. Realistically, it’s more like a concerted run and collision, but Bill palms greedily over his ass and lifts as their mouths mostly miss each other in their desperation and accomodation, and then they’re toppling over onto the couch in a flailing heap. Eddie ends up on top, and as soon as he brackets Bill’s thighs with his knees and grinds down, he knows exactly how this is going to go. 

“I’m going to suck your dick this time,” Eddie says into Bill’s mouth. Bill laughs, delirious and tipsy, and Eddie wants to swallow it all down, but he can only do one thing at a time. And he focuses on the dick-sucking first. He unfolds himself from Bill’s lap and slides to his knees. 

“Wow, you really are,” Bill groans. It goes straight to Eddie’s cock, so he presses it against the couch, the pressure delicious, before moving back and slipping Bill’s sweats off. 

It’s probably their history. But the thread of control that’s been carefully sewn across Eddie’s heart and mind, curated over years and years of living on this Earth, feels tenuous under Bill’s hungry, delighted gaze. It’s intoxicating in its familiarity, but there’s an edge of new, of strange, of everything all suddenly jammed together at once and bust open fully for the first time that sends shivers up Eddie’s spine. He holds Bill’s cock firm and strong in his hand and goes about making good on a decade-long promise. 

Bill never takes his eyes off him. “Oh, holy _shit_ , you are.” 

“Mmmph.”

Eddie mouths around the head of Bill’s dick. He pops off, gathering a little spit in his palm to stroke until Bill’s fully hard, then reaches down to fondle his balls. The alcohol spins in his head. But something about staring at Bill’s cock, at his stomach twitching, at his red lips and messy hair drives him crazy. He wants everything. So much. He wants to devour Bill whole. 

He dips down and tongues at Bill’s hole. Just for a second. 

Bill’s cock jumps in his hand.

“I’m not gonna last,” gasps Bill, and Eddie teases him with a lick. 

“We’re always too fast.” 

When he looks back up, Bill’s eyes flicker with something, and it splits fear across Eddie’s chest. He sucks Bill’s cock into his mouth and tries to distract himself. 

He bobs his head in Bill’s lap, trying to fit more and more in his mouth, gently pressing his thighs apart to trail his fingers down to Bill’s hole. They need more spit, so he tends to them before getting back to work, cleaning up where Bill is leaking onto his tongue. Bitter and delicious. Eddie’s so hard he can barely see straight. He can do this. Once he gets a finger nudging into Bill’s ass, it all goes fast and hard. 

“Fuck. Fuck me, Eddie,” pants Bill, his hands clung tightly to the back of the couch, his hips pumping along with the rhythm Eddie is quickly setting. Eddie slips in another finger, then another, thrusting three right at Bill’s prostate. He’s moaning around the cock in his mouth, rubbing his own straining erection any place he can find for some friction: against Bill’s leg, against the jutted-out side of the couch, against his own hand when he finds enough balance. Soon enough, Bill is coating the back of Eddie’s tongue in come, and Eddie’s going off in his own sweats, and then they’re just collapsed in a heap of sweaty, sticky panting. 

Eddie springs awake the next morning like someone wound him up the night before. He’s been mostly spared a hangover, but an unpleasant heaviness settles in his stomach from all the sugar. And the blowjob. 

The fucking… _blowjob_. 

He kind of wants to cry. He just _jumped_ Bill. And right when he was opening up about dating. Or considering it, at least. Either way, Eddie is a shitty friend for not listening. For catapulting himself and his issues into Bill’s arms and forcing him to deal with the fallout. 

Once he drags himself out of bed, dry heaves over the toilet, and brushes his teeth twice, he finds Bill, standing aimlessly in the kitchen holding an empty coffee pot. Eddie considers turning around and bolting; maybe he can get a last minute flight back to New York and just pretend this all never happened. But then Bill turns around.

So there goes that. 

“Eddie, hi.” Bill waves the coffee pot. “Hi. Good morning.” 

“Uh. Morning,” Eddie mumbles. He snatches the pot out of Bill’s hand and busies himself with filling it. He needs coffee for this conversation. Unfortunately, Bill isn’t willing to give him the five minute pause. 

“Listen, about last night, I—” 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Eddie blurts, gracelessly dropping the coffee pot in the sink, letting the water overflow. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. You’ve been going through a hard time. We _both_ have. The… the divorces, and the… the fucking _clown_ , and we haven’t even really talked—” 

“Whoa, whoa, Eddie, hold on.” Bill moves closer, his hands gone up between them. “You don’t need to apologize for last night. _I_ should be apologizing to you.” 

Eddie laughs. “I jumped you!”

“You did not—” Bill starts, but Eddie tuts in disagreement. Bill presses his lips together. “You did _not_ jump me. I was… um. I was _very_ into it. Actually.” His cheeks go pink, right in the middle. 

Eddie’s whole chest fills up with pressure. He almost floats away. But Bill shakes out his expression, his face gone serious. His eyes boring into Eddie’s. 

“Eddie, I feel like you don’t know… what you’ve done for me since you’ve moved in here,” Bill says, slowly. 

Eddie shrugs.

“I’ve done a lot of cleaning. I still haven’t been able to get those stains out of the patio chairs, but I’ve been looking up some more Youtube—”

“No, Eddie, I mean what you’ve done for _me_.” Bill lays a hand on Eddie’s arm, and Eddie goes warm all over. _Oh_. This is Bill letting him down easy. “You’ve gotten me through this past few months. This past _year_. You’ve… you’ve been there for me.”

Eddie wants to play it cool. But being the center of Bill’s attention has always been intoxicating and overwhelming. Whether they were talking, or making jokes, or kissing… or _more_ , Eddie’s always been game. Focused and unwilling to say no. Who would want to say no to Bill? 

So Eddie stutters, “I have?” like some sort of schoolboy. Bill laughs. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you really have.” Bill’s lips shift side to side, like he’s mulling something over. “And kissing you last night, _touching_ you, remembering touching you before…” Bill’s eyes meet his. His hand grips tighter around Eddie’s arm. “I’ve never felt like that.” 

“Oh.” Eddie wants to kiss him again. Wants to drag him over to the couch, or to one of the many beds in the house. He can already feel himself getting hard and wants to press himself all along Bill’s chest. 

Bill bites his lip, a sparkle in his eye, and Eddie thinks maybe he’s thinking the same thing. 

“So…” Bill scuffs his foot on the ground. 

“So,” Eddie says. It feels like a challenge. A gentle dare. Eddie wouldn’t want to push too hard. But then again, pushing never got him anywhere bad with Bill in the past. 

“You…” Bill clears his throat. “You wanna do it again?” 

Eddie’s whole body crackles alive, excited, scared. He has no idea what any of this means—what it _will_ mean, once they really talk it out. But for now, he’s willing to trust that Bill has his best interests at heart. 

“Fuck _yes_ ,” he sighs, and seals it with a kiss. 

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know if you liked it! Thank you for reading.


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